The Heart of a Demon
by frostdragon64
Summary: Time and time again, Iridian has been neglected and cheated of her freedom. When the Nine Realms are at stake, she may not have the willpower to save the people that denied her. Despite the odds, a group of Midgardian heroes may change all of that, and Iridian may learn that other people are worth fighting for. Rated T for language, violence, blood, and possible squicks/triggers.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: Ah, it feels good to be publishing a story again! For those of you who have read the first lolweaksauce draft of this fanfic, welcome back, and enjoy the massive changes I have made to this fic! For those who haven't, I hope you enjoy this enough to follow and fav.**

XxX

_Prologue_

_Has my life turned into a constant wild goose chase?_

The girl looked at the dimming lights behind her. The scouts had disappeared, but she was out of breath and was in no condition to run anymore. She slowed to a moderate jog, heart still thumping in her chest. Her staff glowed warmly, illuminating her face and the surrounding trees. She remembered back to her childhood, where her days were spent wandering through the forest and attempting to leave her past behind, giving her a horrible feeling of déjà vu.

She found it ironic that the one thing that saved her was the one thing she was now running from. No, she wasn't just running from him, she was running from all the times she had given in to despair and evil, and was running towards the light, whatever that may be. Her breath steadily grew stronger as she pushed onward, pushing away bushes and low-laying ferns, and using the wan moonlight to guide her. Her confidence fueled her vast stores of energy, knowing that no matter where she went from here, she would find an answer.

Her scratched hands plowed through a row of low-lying, thorny bushes, covered with the droplets of rain hailing from above. A braid, heavy with perspiration and raindrops, clung to the back of her sopping tunic, soaking it. Desperation and sheer willpower brought her past the bushes, right into another ring of verdant growth. Many more scrubs and ferns impeded her path, but she tore through them all, albeit with a respectable amount of effort.

At last, her destination came into view. A ring of tall trees surrounded a decrepit cave, its rocky walls inlaid with rubies. At its mouth were several piles of animal bones and two clawed torches, their orange lights flickering in the gentle night breeze. A palette of indistinguishable smells wafted their way to her senses. She didn't know whether to reel at the aroma, or to embrace it.

Without a second impulse, her legs took her to the very rim of the clearing, straight to the mouth of the cave. Her staff shone a brighter shade of cerulean, as if frightened of the great expanse of darkness in front of them. The girl sighed, took a deep, calming breath, and walked straight into the cave, hoping to find answers to all of her questions.

XxX

The cave smelled of wet grass and several incenses mixed together, and the smells of jasmine and thyme were overlapping each other constantly. Several torches that burned with a magical light waited for the girl, which were undoubtedly the source of the wonderful fragrances. The steady rhythm of water plinking onto the smooth surface of the cavern floor lulled her into a quiet serenity. Towards the back of the cave, the shadows themselves seemed to grow a more apprehensive and secretive side, hiding things that even the gods couldn't find. Even with the light filtering through the mouth of the cave and from her staff, she could barely make out the hunched shape of an elderly lady, muttering arcane words and waving a sort of talisman over a bubbling pot the color of charcoal.

The girl was about to say something when the woman abruptly stood up, knocking over a clay jar filled with marble-shaped objects. When the woman turned around and stepped into the ghastly purple torchlight, the girl almost had a stroke.

The lady wore a mask that was meant to resemble a raven, with beady eyes and a smooth beak that snapped repeatedly, whether on its own or under its wearer's influence, the visitor didn't know. Streaks of red and purple war paint lined the mask's face, and feathers protruded from the back of the mask. Black, wiry hair fell down to the lady's lower back, covering up paintings and charms adorning the back of her robe. She gave off a creepy, secluded aura that made the girl want to bolt out of the cave and never come back.

When the little hermit spoke, her voice rasped worse than a knife scraping sandpaper. "Child, one does not merely stroll straight into my cave. Do you have no manners?" As she spoke, the beak opened and closed, so it was obvious that the beak was somehow connected with the movements of her mouth.

The girl, whose melodious voice was momentarily paralyzed, said softly, "I came here from The Cloak's place. He's been keeping me prisoner, and I escaped. You need to help me!"

A beak opened and closed, accompanied with the cackling of a flock of ravens. The mask's eyes sparkled as a mirthful hoot echoed from the lady's mouth. "I only help those who are worthy, and no one is. Reading futures, identifying prophecies, it's tricky business. If you've heard the name Avulania, you know that most of my customers are dissatisfied. You will be too, if you persuade me to help you!" Avulania turned away from the girl, and returned to stirring the pot.

The escaped prisoner turned around, intent on running away from this dank cave, when Avulania froze. Something was wrong. She rose from her place next to the cauldron and stood in front of the girl, blocking her way out of the cave. "You never told me your name, mortal. Tell me!"

There was a hesitant moment, as the girl debated whether or not to tell the old sage. She was a hag, but she was an intelligent hag. Finally, she relented. "My name's Iridian. Iridian Vaylindra."

Shock was present in Avulania's mask as the beak opened wide and was left hanging. The old croon's demeanor flipped into a whole new perspective as her tone switched to a more curious level. "The fires said you would come, asking for help, and I would have to help you. Clam up, girl. What is it that you need?"

Iridian was taken aback by her sudden willingness to be of service. "I-I need to know my future, my destiny. It's been kept from me, and I have a feeling that I'll need to know once the time comes. I've been through a lot, and if anything, I need to know where to go from here."

"Say no more. The past is put behind you, and your future awaits. You know of the evil spawn plaguing this land?"

"Yes, I do," was all Iridian said. It hurt to add too much detail.

Avulania strode over to a brazier and stared into its intense violet flames. After a moment, the sage backed away hesitantly as if she had been punched. Where two beady eyes used to be were eye sockets blazing with a lively blood-red light. Iridian once again fought the urge to turn and run.

A toneless voice, filled with empty sympathy, reverberated from Avulania's mask. It was no longer scratchy and unused, but flowing and forceful. A maze of confusing words sprawled itself out in Iridian's mind as the sage spoke a prophecy that would haunt her for the ages to come.

_A girl wanders lost, seeking assistance,_

_Brought by the fires of hope and resistance,_

_Crossed with death and life,_

_A rift between darkness and mortality._

_She delves into a history,_

_Full of blood and pain,_

_Destined to awaken the heroes,_

_The group of the shadow's bane._

_Hope will be lost,_

_Lives will be taken,_

_The claw of justice will fall,_

_The goddess will awaken._

As soon as the sage uttered these words, she collapsed like a log cabin in a violent storm. Iridian finally considered making a run for it, but just when she thought she was clear, Avulania growled from on the floor, her voice no longer fluid and flowing. "Seek out… the avenging heroes of Midgard… Go… find them… Take the portal stone in the Forest of Outsiders… go west and leave me…" Upon muttering these words, Avulania's voice faded, leaving only the crackling of fires and the gentle whisper of raven spirits flapping their ghostly wings.

Iridian turned and dashed out of the cave without a single glance backwards.

XxX

The dragon sat alone, his clawed hand gripping the edge of the throne's armrest like he was throttling his worst enemy. In his other hand twirled a double-edged sword the color of nightmares, a ruby-red gem adorning the pommel. Two gleaming bloodred eyes peered out from a diamond-shaped head with several spikes running down his forehead. His scales reminded anyone in his presence of a pool of black oil that would suck out the life of an unwary victim. His heavy, billowing cloak was a blanket of darkness under which two bat-like wings lay folded over, waiting for the chance to bring its owner to the skies. His mantle went up to his elbows and ended in a kilt at his thighs.

The oaken double doors swung open, bringing a great gust of wind into the throne room, full of cold malice. A dragon-servant, with scales the color of lint, and puny in size to the dragon warlord upon the throne, held his head low as he slowly came farther into the room. He could feel the glaring eyes of the dragon lord on his exposed neck, sending an army of ants crawling down his back. A tiny, trembling voice, no larger than the timid squeak of a mouse, slowly wormed its way past the servant's lips. "M-milord, the dawn approaches. The warriors have not yet found her, and they are tired. Th-they await your orders, O mighty one."

All was silent for a moment.

The dragon king looked down upon the servant with narrowed, impatient eyes and a mixture of hate and annoyance. At last, he broke the silence, bringing his order forth in a deep, resonant voice like a bear's growl and a lion's roar. He had neither love nor kindness in his cold, calculating speech. "They must press on. To hold back is to lose our chance at destroying the prophecy and forfeiting our rise to power. I will send reinforcements, but they are to keep hidden. Should they not, there will be worse things waiting for them here than a laceration or scald. Begone, and do not return till evening falls once again."

He watched as the servant backed out of the chamber stiffly. As soon as the meddlesome attendant departed, the great doors slammed shut once more. Nothing else moved, save for the flickering torches, their light reflecting a pale glow upon the weathered walls.

_My kingdom will arise soon, _the dragon lord thought maliciously, fingering his sword like a parent cradling his loved one. The torches mirrored the wicked, sadistic gleam in his peering eyes. _The Nine Realms will bow to me. If not, then who cares if they burn?_

**Well, that was interesting! Tell me what you guys think! Thanks again, and hope you stick around!**


	2. The Clouds Gather

**Author's Note: I haven't updated this. For. Five. Months. I hope someone missed me. ^_^. I hope all of you saw Iron Man 3! If you haven't, stay for after the credits, okay?**

**Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. Except my OCs. That's it.**

XxX

_The Clouds Gather_

_ Asgard_

He sat in his cell, with only the fading moonlight as pathetic company. His shadow, hunched over and pitiful, blended in with the darkness around him. The boisterous sounds of a party echoed off the walls on the floor above him. He could hear the mad stomping of feet, as if the partygoers above were possessed by the spirits of elephants. Loud catcalls and booming taunts reverberated in the captive's eardrums, disturbing any chance for sleep and rest. Rubbing his eyes, he stared out the window, bathing in the cool translucence of the moon's glow, although it was disappearing with every second that lapsed. The clouds were encroaching upon the orb of magnificence in the sky, shielding it from the prying eyes below.

As the night progressed, the punished trickster in darkness grew more weary and tired. His eyelids grew heavy, but the prospect of trying feebly to sleep through a great Asgardian party did not appeal to him. So, the God of Mischief, Loki, sat there, grumbling to himself about how self-centered Asgardians were, and how mean and unthinking the Allfather was to station him in a musty cell right below the festive banquet hall. He felt an insatiable urge to rip every Asgardians' head off and throw them to the dogs for amusement.

Loki never noticed how much time had passed before the festivities above died down, and the howling guffaws and chortles of drunken soldiers faded into mere whispers of their former, hearty selves. He sighed in relief. At last, he could have a peaceful sleep, with no ignorant fools around to meddle with it. Since his cell only had a simple cot that smelled weird and foreign, Loki decided to snooze in a sitting position on the smooth steel bench. He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and began to descend into a calm, undisturbed sleep.

He was just about to fully loose contact with his senses when the rhythmic clacking of claws outside the cell interrupted him. Grumbling, he scooted farther away from the cell door, when a booming, gruff voice spoke, "Laufeyson. Long I have awaited the time to meet you. Many tales have spread about your achievements, naming you a renowned and powerful mischief-maker, and yet, here you are, sitting in a cell, brooding about things that have come to be."

Loki laughed in his cynical way. "If you've come all this way to taunt me, weary traveler, I'm afraid that you may be sorely mistaken. I can still crush you from in here. My imprisonment has given me plenty of time to practice sorcery." As if to prove his point, the god extended a hand with the palm facing upwards and summoned a dark, indigo-colored orb of malignant, violent energies the size of a bowling ball that seemed to suck in the particles of lightr. It was enough to leave a creature of the arctic shivering, but the mysterious guest wasn't impressed.

It was the visitor's turn to grin. He stepped closer to Loki's cell, and now, the trickster could make out the visitor's features: a cruel, draconian grin, scaly black armor shining dimly; a sword that gleamed with a fierce harshness strapped to his back. Loki hadn't noticed it until he had come forth closer to the shrouded moonlight, but he radiated fear and darkness the way the sun radiated heat. He sensed a feeling of claustrophobic containment, and it wasn't just because he was in a cell. He felt a compulsion to leap off a cliff just to escape the imaginary barriers of darkness threatening to crush him and his very soul. Loki trembled slightly, with a mixture of hate and begrudging respect.

The dragon smiled, showing blinding razor-sharp fangs. "And you thought you were the greatest sorcerer in all the Nine Realms."

Loki turned a suspicious eye toward the individual, letting the pitiful orb of darkness in his hand fade into the shadows of the night. He balanced his right elbow on his knee, resting his cheek upon his palm as he faced the mysterious creature on the other side of his bars. He kept a passive face as he spoke in a scornful tone, "You still haven't told me why you have come, O great one. Are you coming to let me out?"

At this, the draconian laughed. "Let you out? You'll slaughter me. You'll make a considerable effort, but a trickster like you would harbor some grudges, yes?"

Loki huffed in displeasure. He lowered his right arm and stared out the window, not making eye contact with this dark being. "Well, then, what will you have me do?"

"I need information. As much as you are willing to release." The dragon stalked closer to Loki, and again he felt the suicidal feeling of hopelessness and fear that radiated from him. The dragon made eye contact with the shivering Loki as he growled, "You are talking to Lord Vexar, the soon-to-be ruler of the Nine Realms. If you wish to see your vengeful wishes fulfilled and Odin the fool overthrown, give me as much advice as you can. Now, tell me, who do you know of that could disrupt my conquest?"

He saw no sense in resisting against Vexar himself. He was ambitious, but he wasn't stupid. Immediately, Loki felt a surge of possible answers pile against his tongue. Like a raging tide of water, it flew from his mouth in a string of insults and curses written upon his mind. "You search for something than can be found everywhere. But, if it is a group of meddling, idiotic buffoons you are looking for, search no further than the mortal group known as the Avengers. They may be stupid and ignorant, but they are warriors, and all warriors deserve respect. You will find them in the insignificant realm of Midgard." After this outpouring of uproarious words, the trickster had instantly procured a jumble of confusing thoughts and regrets. He had gotten his rage and bitterness out, so why did he feel this muddled?

"They will get no respect from me." Vexar backed stealthily away from Loki's cell, retreating into the dark halls of the dungeon. His voice faded to a quiet, yet still-intimidating growl as the dragon lord moved farther out of sight. "Your help was much appreciated, Laufeyson. You will see the fruit of your efforts soon enough." Leaving those biting words hanging sourly in the air, the sound of Vexar's clacking feet faded into nothingness.

Loki sat in silence, listening to the roaring of his thoughts, caught in a whirl of imaginary voices vying for his undivided attention. He had no idea why he was so confused and disoriented. Something nagged at him from the corner of his brain, amidst the crowd of jealousy and rage. A memory dragged him back in time, back to the exact moment that his bumbling brother had left him. He remembered Thor's stern, yet softened and slightly guilty expression as Loki was brought into his cell long ago. In that glance back in time, Loki saw the expression of desperate pity etched into worried creases upon the Odinson's face.

The imprisoned demigod bit his lip, recalling what had just been said in the last few minutes. He had felt the unfathomable, dark aura surrounding the dragon lord, a feeling that turned his spine into acid. Vexar was a warmonger; if he took advantage of anyone else, all would suffer. The unforgiving darkness would overcome everything, leaving nary a person untouched. Had Loki just allied himself with a cold-blooded killer worse than he?

Loki's conscience was now nonexistent, torn into indistinguishable threads of guilt and forgiveness. He thought, deep under the layers of negativity toward Thor and his brother's mortal allies, there once lay a soul. He wasn't so sure anymore.

He shivered. Loki, in his jealously and anger, had sold out his forgiving brother. He had sold out every act of kindness that Thor had shared with him. He had sold out his family, and in doing so, possibly the world.

XxX

Iridian stumbled. The ground was an unforgiving force as she landed facefirst in the mud. Her chest heaved as more dirt and grime splashed through the holes in her torn tunic. She lay there for several more moments, forcibly resting her body and mind. Her legs felt as if someone had poured boiling water all over them, and in that moment, she wished that she hadn't been running for so long. The lungs in her ribcage begged for mercy, pushing the breath out of her parched, swollen mouth in a raggedy way that reminded her of a knife scraping sandpaper. The moon above, still covered by gently-gliding clouds, bathed the forest in a luminous, beautiful light. Everything was so relaxing, and she found no reason against resting under the moonlit canopy.

However, she still needed to push onward. Her destiny was slowly drifting toward her; she could feel it. Spurred by this next hope, she rose shakily to her feet yet again, and traveled onward, her leather boots dragging in the mud. Using her staff as a walking stick, she made progress across the unsteady terrain, disliking her unsure footing all the while.

The shadows seemed to whisper maniacally at her. Something dark was approaching.

Three seconds later, something slammed into her, faster than a galloping horse, more relentless than a tidal wave. She felt the wood of her staff leave her hand in a burst of air. Her eyelids, powered by instinct, snapped shut, and as she fell, the mysterious creature pinned her harshly to the ground. It tore through her skin without hesitation, sending arcs of pain through her body. She felt a razor-sharp claw slice open her chest. As blood soiled her clothing, she faded into agonizing unconsciousness, hoping to every merciful god that death would come quickly.

XxX

_Malibu, California_

The first thing Natasha Romanoff heard from her bedroom in the morning was Tony's insistent yelling downstairs. "Cap, hurry up with the toaster, dammit! If I can't trust you with a common household appliance, I don't know what else I can trust you with."

Somewhere close to the aggravated billionaire, the muffled, slightly downcast reply of Steve Rogers could be heard. "Toasters usually don't have white mucus-y stuff all over them…"

An awkward yet brief silence ensued, followed by the rapid sound of someone spitting his breakfast beverage.

Sighing at their masculine immaturity, the red-haired assassin turned her head to look at her nightstand clock. The luminescent display that greeted her read _9:38_, spelled out in pasty-looking numbers. For the first time that morning, she noticed that not a single gleaming ray of sunlight was streaming through her window. She ripped her covers off of the bed, grasped for the nearest decent pieces of clothing, and gently eased herself onto the floor, careful not to step on the suspicious stain embedded permanently in the carpet. She could never be too sure in Tony's house. The clothing she had picked was compiled of a fashionable blouse and regular-fitting jeans. Brushing aside the silk curtains, she paused.

The sky was completely gray. Clouds smothered the sunshine that would have otherwise been shining. A faint avian cry in the distance suggested the nearby presence of seagulls. She felt it then, a tension only associated with heavy rainstorms accompanied by flashing lightning and humid temperatures. This time, however, something else felt wrong. And it wasn't the usual feeling of annoyance and irritation that complements a stay with the Avengers.

_If something does go wrong, it'll probably be a minor thunderstorm. Nothing major._

Still, she couldn't help it. Her hand clasped onto the grip of her handgun, which she thrust into its holster and strapped to her hips. Better having unnecessary protection than having none.

With these comforting thoughts and actions easing the last of her doubt from her mind, she fully dressed herself, walked calmly over to the door, turned the knob, and began the trek downstairs.

XxX

Tony and Steve were still arguing about the toaster. Ironically, Tony's T-shirt was red, and Cap's was blue. Both men were wearing gray sweatpants. Clint was laughing so hard that he had spit orange juice onto the wall and his white tank-top, and had to put his head down on the table. Bruce was looking down at his plate, hoping that his red-as-cherries cheeks weren't noticeable. Thor sat on a nearby couch, fingering the rim of his porcelain coffee cup and smiling childishly as he did so.

"I'm telling you, I have no idea how that got there; I was probably jetlagged or something, now will you shut up?" Tony's face was slightly red, nothing compared to Bruce's, but it was still visible.

Natasha didn't know how Steve was keeping a straight face. Ignorance was her guess. "Are you always this disgusting?" He had just finished cleaning up the mysterious substance with a wet paper towel and was now glaring at Tony.

The billionaire had regained his composure and returned to his regular, playboy-like self. "Depends on what you mean by disgusting."

The super-soldier smacked his forehead. "I mean, do you always go waltzing around your house, trying to—"

"Guys," Natasha spoke, "stop."

Bruce snatched his bathrobe and got up quickly to leave for the next room over, bringing his bowl of cranberries with him. Thor took another sip from his coffee, acting as if the entirety of Tony's toaster had never been violated. Clint sat at the table, wondering if he should continue snickering.

Tony walked up to the foot of the staircase that Natasha had just descended from. "Hi, Nat. Slept well?"

She nodded. "Yes, besides knowing the fact that you and the toaster could have had babies."

Clint interrupted, "Do we know if the toaster's female?"

"Toasters don't have genders." Steve had finally gotten his bagel out of the toaster and was now promptly throwing it away in the garbage bin. He sat at the table and tried to guzzle as much of his coffee as he could.

"Thank you, Captain, for stating the obvious. Like you always do."

"What was that supposed to mean?" Steve grasped his mug of coffee and went into the kitchen to refill it, but stopped when he realized that the coffee pot was nowhere to be seen. He tilted his head toward the general direction of the couch. "Thor, where's the coffee pot?"

"Hmm? You mean this?" From his cozy spot, the Asgardian held up a raindrop-shaped glass container with a lip for pouring caffeinated liquids.

"Yes, that. I need it."

He looked ponderously at the object in his hand. "Captain, I am afraid it is empty. I might have drunk it all."

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose quietly as Thor strolled to the kitchen to refill it, but was stopped by Clint. He had finally gotten a hold of himself, and was now recognizing that if Steve was horrible with electronics, Thor was even worse. It was like comparing the artistic skills of a commissioned painter to those of a toddler. The last time the Avengers had trusted Thor enough to handle a computer, he had smashed it with Mjolnir and claimed that he was trying to rid the screen of "vermin". In other words, they learned never to trust Thor again.

"I'll get it, don't worry." Clint trod to the coffeemaker in Thor's place, who sat back down on the couch. Natasha, Tony, and Steve watched in relief as the black brew began to pour seamlessly out of the device into the cup.

_Crisis averted._

Bruce came striding back into the dining room with his purple bathrobe and set his bowl of dried fruit down on the table. "So, anybody have any plans? Plans for spending the day?"

Clint, who had just finished preparing more coffee and was now sitting back at the table, raised a hand. "Can we go to L.A, find the biggest shopping square we can find, and yell, 'The sky is falling'?"

Natasha took a cushioned chair next to Clint and elbowed him in the stomach playfully. "No, we can't. We have better ways to spend our time."

"Like?" Clint prompted.

"Well," Tony interjected, "we can—"

"Okay, no one say anything. Tony, the first time we heard your idea on how to spend our time, you spent three days behind bars." Steve had brought up a valid point.

"Sir," Tony's robotic collaborator JARVIS suddenly spoke, "If I might add, your wonderful companions had to pay a $150,000 fine to both bail you out and to repair the damage to the strip—"

"Gah! Don't remind him!"

"JARVIS, was that sarcasm?" Tony wondered out loud.

"You left me on 'natural speech pattern mode', sir."

"Good. Stay that way."

"That still doesn't solve our existing problem." Bruce was now sitting next to Thor on the couch, albeit a few feet away. He still didn't trust the guy. With his bumbling clumsiness, one wrong move from the mighty thunder god could send calm Dr. Banner into 'green rage mode'.

"We could play another game of Mario Kart…" Clint suggested, but the words faded out as he saw the uncomfortable stares of his friends.

"Clint," Natasha butted in, "not to be rude, but you really suck at that game."

Tony interjected, "He is pretty good on Rainbow Road, though."

Bruce's snort was extremely audible. "Yeah, very likely. The only useful thing he did was when he drove himself off the edge of the track. What a badass."

"I'm gonna train for a little, guys…" Steve awkwardly scooted away from the scene, freshly made coffee in hand, and walked silently out of the dining hall. He knew how bad of a Mario Kart player he was himself.

"Aye. This coffee was excellent." Thor set his empty cup down, brushed his black jeans off, and grabbed Mjolnir off of the coffee table. He rose off the couch and followed Steve down into the lower part of Tony's house, where assortments of training dummies awaited them.

Once their footsteps had faded, the Avengers went silent for a while.

"Where's Pepper?" Bruce suddenly found the urge to ask this question. It didn't exactly apply to their conversation, but no one cared, anyway.

"She said she'd be at a business meeting, covering my ass." Tony fired off this statement easily.

"You make that sound normal."

"Who's to say it isn't?"

"Pepper?"

Tony nodded.

Bruce sighed. Suddenly, Natasha and Clint tensed. Then, like leaping cats borne from a springboard, the agents yelled, "Move!" and tackled Tony and Bruce over the couch.

Milliseconds later, an ear-deafening howl of wispy wind blew through the first floor of Tony's mansion with enough force to rip a steel sheet apart. The angry tearing sound that followed sent chills of dread tingling up their spines. If none of them had moved, the wind would have propelled the four of them out of the building and sent them careening to the dark ocean below. The gale continued to blow, knocking a painting off the wall and mauling the madly fluttering drapery like a drunken tiger.

The gale ended as rapidly as it had arrived, only to be immediately replaced with a sinister, heart-stopping laughter. From behind their makeshift upholstery fortress, the four heroes arose to set eyes upon a figure floating in the midst of the ruined kitchen. He was cloaked with a fervent energy that could only be compared to the gravity of a black hole, except on a smaller scale. The robes of a long-lost king draped his shoulders and trailed messily down to the floor. His shirt and pants were tattered and moth-eaten. His face reminded them of a zombie's: lidless eyes as gray as a rainy sky; rotten, yellowed teeth; enlarged nostrils. The creature's shoulder-length dreadlocks were as white as snow, completing the undead look. The color of his skin was a midnight black that matched his attire. In one hand he held a curved dagger comparable to a medieval machete, rusted gold decorations adorning the hilt. Hardened blood was evident on the blade.

It was enough to make them vomit.

Then, it spoke: a grating sound that was worse than a cat scratching a chalkboard. "The worst has yet to come."

The dagger flew from the abomination's hand, flying straight for Clint's head. With the reaction time of a cobra, he sidestepped, letting the blade sink into the wall, and grabbed the nearest item that would qualify for a defensive mechanism: a letter opener. He threw it the way he would a baseball, pining for a direct hit that would end this bastard's life forever.

The letter opener sailed in the intended trajectory and pierced the strange newcomer square in the chest. Bones shattered as the knife continued unabated on its course. A _thunk _could be heard as the object embedded itself in the torn wall behind him.

Clint was about to ask for congratulations from the others when the figure revealed another weapon, a mace the size of a tree trunk, from under his decrepit robe. There was a gaping hole in his chest where his heart should have been, and that was slowly closing. He was still hovering in the air, preparing another strike.

He was still alive.

_Damn it._

**Please leave a review if you're enjoying this! Thanks so much!**

**(I seriously hope people know what's going on in Malibu). And yes, I like Mario Kart. Bye!**


	3. The Words of an Assassin

**Author's Note: I'd like to point one thing out. Bruce, at this moment in time, has learned to Hulk-out only in certain limbs, such as an arm or a leg. This would be useful when a situation has him in a cramped area where he can't fully transform. Cool, huh?**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, as usual. My OCs, however, could be used. IF YOU ASKED FIRST. Hehe.**

XxX

_The Words of an Assassin_

Steve felt something was wrong.

The training room was padded to prevent unnecessary noise from both coming in and getting out. In other words, it was sound-proof; an isolated chamber in what would otherwise be a boisterous guest house.

He went over to the nearest heavy bag, its leather surface weathered and torn from multiple hits. He had used it so much that he named it Bob.

Bob was obviously not in a good mood. With every one punch he threw, Bob would swing backwards and then come veering towards Steve with avengeance. He knew that punching bags couldn't talk or convey emotion, but whatever. He felt a little closer to everything if he gave them names.

Thor sat nearby, listening to a collection of Beatles songs while doing curl-ups. Ever since the invasion of Manhattan, Thor had become obsessed with both coffee and yellow submarines. He also insisted on looking for someone named Eleanor Rigby every time they went somewhere in public, which proved to be absolutely mortifying. No matter how good-looking someone is, being called a "lonely person" by a god tends to raise some eyebrows.

Bob swung in the direction of Steve's punches. In retaliation, the soldier began a rigorous combination of moves that would leave any HYDRA agent with stars dancing in their heads. An uppercut followed a vicious right hook, which preceded four quick jabs. Many more ferocious moves followed suit. Bob never stood a chance.

After several moments, Steve's internal senses began to tingle; it was said that he had a sixth sense and could detect danger fairly easily. He held the punching bag still for a moment.

"Thor," he said, catching his fellow trainee's attention, "stay on your guard. Something's not right."

XxX

As the figure floated closer to their location, Natasha pulled her gun out of its holster. She managed to get three shots to the torso, forehead, and kneecap before the visitor swiftly blocked the rest with his mace. He wasn't showing any signs of fatigue or faltering, despite the four cavernous wounds in his body. No amount of blood seeped from its injuries. He was smiling.

The Avengers watched in stunned silence as the apparition stalked closer. When it was about six feet away, superhuman speed seemed to flow through its body. It lunged with the precision and agility of a locked-on missile, striding over the couch and bringing his mace to the floor in a downward arc. It tore through an unfocused Natasha's right shoulder, scraping her flesh more easily than a laser cutting fabric. She wavered and tumbled backwards, blood spilling from under her shirt. As she fell, her handgun flew from her hand, clattering to the floor. The mace came for a second run, this time smacking harshly into Clint and thrusting him against the wall, where he lay groaning and in pain.

"JARVIS," Tony yelled, "tell Steve and Thor to get their butts up here, now!" He wished at this time that he had Clint's expert marksman skills or Natasha's agility, and both would be preferable, much more so than JARVIS.

The zombie-like individual approached Bruce, whose eyes and skin were taking on a greenish tone. Mere moments before his assailant raised its weapon, Bruce closed his eyes and raised his right arm. Rips began to appear in the sleeve of his bathrobe. Skin and bones fortified themselves as his outstretched appendage enlarged with added muscle. Pallid veins stood out against the emerald hue of his arm. With the partial transformation complete, the scientist slammed his fist of rage into the creature's skull.

This frontal attack should have crippled the apparition. It had seemed to the eyes as if Bruce's fist had connected, but the opposing creature's flesh showed no acknowledgement of the fact.

His fist had passed straight through it.

Bruce backed up, an expression of utter disbelief on his face. His green arm shrank and faded to its original color, a sign of what seemed to be surrender. The mace hovered threateningly, inches away from impact. A gruesome, rotten mouth curved upwards in sadistic pleasure. Tony looked on hopelessly, very aware that his friend was about to be crushed into powder.

The roar of an angry Asgardian interrupted them.

Thor bounded up the stairs, Mjolnir in hand. Deafening calls of thunder along with the heavy presence of lightning rumbled throughout the entire room. The wind blew, whistling in their ears and throwing the would-be assassin off balance. The hammer of the gods thundered down without mercy; without a sign of hesitation. This time, the weapon connected with the monster's back so violently and hideously that Tony almost threw up. A very real and bone-crunching sound effect bounded into their eardrums as the extraterrestrial sank to the floor like a deflated balloon. Spasmodic twitches wrought its body, a side effect of the turbulent amount of electricity within Thor's magic weapon.

Bruce exhaled in apparent respite and advanced towards the broken body. Its mouth seemed to flail, as if it were trying to speak. After several disgusting attempts to communicate, the phantom began to speak in a grating, baleful voice:

"He will come. He will come… for you all."

Tony sneered derisively. "He'd better not."

"You have no idea of what awaits you," the menace continued. "He will come to rule over all. This will be his realm. The Nine Realms will all be his."

Tony and Bruce stared at each other, horror dawning on their faces. It had only been a few months after the Chitauri, and here lay the lackey of yet another baddie aiming for world domination. Wasn't Loki and his glowing scepter enough for a year? For a lifetime, even? They didn't deserve this…

A bewildered Steve appeared behind Thor. He said nothing, but the others could clearly see embarrassment in his face. It didn't take much to humiliate the guy.

Thor stood alongside his companions and stared at the dying ghoul with anger and suspicion flaring in his eyes. "Who is your master? We will see to his destruction."

It snarled, but that snarl faded into inhuman laughter. "Do not bet on those words, Asgardian. He is more than you can handle."

"Yeah, we get that a lot." was Bruce's reply.

It was clear that their attacker was on his last legs. "When our lord and ruler Vexar comes, you will feel his wrath. You will feel the never-ending darkness pull you down and devour your soul. Humans, you have been forewarned." As these last foreboding words left his mouth, the cutthroat's skin and bones dissolved into a fine black ash. His mace clanged onto the tiles, and his robes fluttered out a gap in the wall, lazily drifting down to the ocean. As their eyes followed its movements, the clothing was swallowed by a wave, pulled under, and disappeared for good.

Several moments passed.

"Nice way to kick-start the day, huh?" Tony said.

The others couldn't help but agree.

XxX

_Minutes later_

Tony stood next to the gaping hole in his kitchen, staring down towards the great expanse of ocean below. His expressions were unreadable, like the pages of a long-forgotten, musty scroll. A gauntlet was affixed to his right hand; lately, he had been working on a new prototype suit. It had been coming along at a normal pace, accompanied by the usual few kinks that needed ironing and the occasional fire in the lab. Now, he was flexing the fingers of the gauntlet to make sure everything was comfortable. Satisfied, he unclasped it from his forearm and casually threw it on the nearest table. He would work on the other parts of the suit later.

He wondered what Pepper would be thinking if she was here. Would she be mad at Steve for being stupidly ignorant and not coming to their aid early on? Would she be worried for Natasha and Clint, who were the only two of the six Avengers injured? Would she be fawning over Thor and lavishing him with words of praise? Or, would she be thinking about something else?

_She'd probably only worry about the kitchen, _Tony thought humorlessly.

The waves caught his attention. He looked at them with a renewed interest. The small currents rushing against the precipice reminded him of a horde of raging bees attacking a well-equipped bee-keeper. The way the water mindlessly surged against the face of the cliff brought to mind the thousands of stinging bees who die with courage in their hearts as they fall attempting to bring down their mutual enemy.

Yep, he was going insane.

He barely noticed Steve and Bruce coming up behind him. Tony thought he should tell them about his great analogy, but he figured they wouldn't get it. Either that or they would send him to a mental hospital. A part of him seemed to like that prospect.

"Tony," Steve blurted. "Sorry."

"I'm not the one who broke ribs, Captain." Tony didn't bother making eye contact.

Steve thought for a moment and answered logically, "I thought you made that training room sound-proof."

Now, Tony glared at him. "You pegged me." Murder flared in his eyes.

The soldier saw it and backed up a few steps. "Since when was I to blame for something you made?"

"If I recall, you were a super-soldier. Big muscles, lots of brain cells, that sort of thing. Guess you wouldn't know, because you're not that much of one." Tony avoided the question, because he knew Steve was right. He just liked to keep arguments going, almost like a nervous tic. It kept him in his comfort zone, and he needed as much time in it as possible.

This nervous tic, however, tended to piss people off. "Ever tried being frozen in ice for several decades, Tony? How long would you last? A day?"

"I don't think being frozen is on the same level as being kidnapped by terrorists."

"You're right, because I could handle something like that better than you."

Tony's heart pumped faster. His head throbbed. A slight shortness of breath followed as he replied stone-faced, "Shrapnel feels different from ice, Rogers. Ever thought about that?"

"Yeah, ever been frostbitten? You wouldn't find it pleasant."

"Maybe if you didn't have your goddamn serum in you, then we'd be even!" Tony's sudden outburst surprised both himself and Steve, but they quickly recovered.

"So, now you're saying that I'm better than you?" snarled Steve, his temper slowly getting the better of his usually calm disposition. "I don't take lightly to being mocked."

Tony returned with an equal amount of irritation. "Yeah, I _am _saying that, and I _am _mocking you. I'm making you sound better than me so that I could feel good about _punching you in the face_!"

Both men were now seething with rage. Their tightly sealed mouths curled upwards in silent snarls. Fists readied themselves, and it was clear that their argument was about to turn into a full-on fistfight. Three seconds into their standoff, they realized that Bruce was still standing behind them.

He raised an eyebrow. "Cute."

Disgusted and annoyed beyond all hope of return, Steve shrugged Tony and Bruce aside and stomped out of the ruined kitchen. The two scientists waited noiselessly until he departed and until his pounding, wrathful footsteps could no longer be heard.

Tony was about to say something, to apologize, to break the icy tension, but Bruce cut him off curtly. "Clint and Natasha need a doctor."

Now, Tony couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, like Bruce had done moments before. "I thought you were—"

"No. They need a real doctor, not me."

Tony turned his back to Bruce and stared listlessly at the Pacific Ocean. The clouds hadn't bothered to move, obscuring an otherwise bright sun. Any minute now, the atmosphere would darken, the clouds would thicken, and rain would pour from the skies in a torrential downpour. The waves roared in response to this, crashing violently against the steep California seaside and scattering a group of seagulls from their rocky perch in a noisy clamor of bird cries. No matter how far he looked west, boats were few and far between. He wondered if any boaters had seen a gigantic wind rip part of Tony's house apart. He hoped not.

He pondered Bruce's suggestion for another minute. What came out of his mouth was a quiet, insistent "No."

A mute expression on the scientist's face turned into explosive surprise and frustration. "Tony, their wounds are leaking green pus. _Green, _for God's sake! Natasha's shoulder blade shattered! Clint broke half of his ribs! Why the hell are you—"

"No."

The look in Dr. Banner's eyes demanded a good explanation. And quickly.

Tony took in a deep breath. "Do you want this to be all over the press? The Internet?"

Bruce shook his head.

Tony's eyes focused on the water, as if he were drawing answers from it. "If they get a doctor, he'll want to know where they got their injuries. Guess what we'll have to tell him."

"Tony," Bruce logically pointed out, "you'd be hard-pressed to find a doctor that hasn't heard of us yet. People have seen what we do, both in and out of the field. No offense, but our… idiocy… isn't exactly a secret. Plus, he should believe us. We're not children."

"That's not what I worry about."

He understood, thankfully. Tony wasn't talking about embarrassment. He was talking about a concern for the sanity of the general populace. "The doctor could swear secrecy. So could his attendants. He'd want to."

"I don't take chances."

Bruce rolled his eyes.

Tony turned to glare pointedly at his fellow Avenger. "You know what I mean. Do you want people going insane? One invasion is enough."

_Most people are already insane, _Bruce reflected.

The billionaire turned back to the giant hole in the wall. "I want them to get better, but we can't cover something like this up if it gets out. They can heal on their own." His tone suggested an end to the conversation.

Bruce nodded once and left.

As he walked away, it occurred to him then that his friend might not entirely be there. Then again, neither might he. He could never say for sure.

XxX

_Several years ago_

It was daytime. Jubilant children screeched excitedly as they played hide-and-seek with each other. Adults stood near the fences surrounding their houses and talked about political things, like the condition of the capital, or the price of precious stones and minerals. She never understood such conversations, but it helped the adults pass the time, so she didn't really care.

"Mama, look what I found!" The seven-year-old Iridian trotted merrily into her mother's garden, holding a gleaming stone that shimmered in the sunlight, reflecting every color of the rainbow. Her mother, who was busy drying clothes on the family clothesline, turned to look at her daughter. Her eyes grew wide in startled amazement. The first time she had seen such a sight was in a jewelry shop in Vyanir, the largest and richest city in Kyvial. She took one glance at that price tag and immediately told herself that she would never touch that gem. But here was one such gem, held in the hands of her precious daughter. She was trembling with graciousness.

She drew in a deep breath to steady herself. "That's… amazing!" She gently pried the stone from Iridian's grabby fingers to take a good look at the stone. "Where did you find this? It must be worth so much…"

The girl's face brightened. "I found it under a rock. I thought you might like it."

Her mother giggled in reply. "Are you kidding, Iridian? This is wonderful!" And she bent down to hug her daughter, chuckling all the while. Iridian believed she was laughing out of pure happiness, so she started laughing too.

After a moment, her mother rose and grasped Iridian's hand. "Let's go show Daddy, alright? He's working on something next door."

"Sure! Do you think he'll like it too?" Iridian wondered. "He likes shiny things, so he might want to look at it."

"Definitely." The two of them walked out of the yard, smiling and looking as if they had just arrived in a sunny paradise.

That paradise abruptly ended when the house next door exploded.

Screams could be heard as smoke drifted into the sky. Her mother stood paralyzed, staring at the violent bonfires leaping from their neighbor's cottage. Then, the little girl remembered: their father had been working in that house. They stood there, frozen to the spot in distress.

They didn't have to wait long before Iridian's father stumbled into the yard, gripping his sword and gasping for breath as he struggled for words. His ordinarily neat auburn hair was disheveled, polluted by ashes and what looked like blood. His startling green eyes showed nothing but concern and grim determination. "Alya, get Iridian out of here. We're under attack."

Her mother's face paled. "Is it a neighboring village?"

Another explosion rocked the village. Sobs now mixed with the yells of the terrified. He hesitated before answering, "No. Demons."

Then, they saw them: blurred shapes, blackened with smoke, rushing around the houses and trees, scaring off barking dogs and wailing children separated from their families. Occasionally, one of them would lunge, sprint into a house, and then that house would burst into flames. The cries of the villagers droned out every other sound, except the destructive crackling of fire. Sentries rushed about, yelling for people to leave their homes and evacuate the area. Many of them bore swords and wooden clubs, but they were useless against these assailants.

"Momma, what's going on?"

"Iridian!" Alya's high-pitched voice reached her daughter through the noise of more explosions. "Get out of here!"

Her mother's shrill words echoed in her ears. She knew they were in danger, but why was Momma so enthusiastic about it? They weren't going to die, were they? She hoped not.

Unsure of what to do, she tugged on her father's sleeve. "Daddy, c'mon, we gotta leave! It's too dangerous here!"

Her father smiled assuredly, but there was a shaky edge to his words. "Don't worry; I need to stay with Mama and keep her safe. You run off into the woods. We'll catch up with you later."

Fingering her lucky stone, Iridian ran off towards the forest. More explosions sounded behind her. The sobbing, incomprehensible voices surrounding her grew in volume. Her ears rang, and her heart was thumping faster than it had ever thumped before.

She had just enough time to look back at her house at the faraway figures of her parents. Behind them, a dark shadow stalked closer to their house. Too late, she realized what that meant. She tried screaming, she tried waving her arms about, but her mind was not there. It was already descending at a breakneck speed straight into a deep, dark pit of insanity.

Three seconds later, her house, along with her parents, burst into flames.

Stunned, Iridian skidded to a stop, stood there, and watched as her home was burned to cinders. The lucky stone fell out of her senseless hand and thumped onto the dirt path.

As flames and hungry beasts ravaged her home, she began to cry.

XxX

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	4. The Hunter's Son

**Author's Note: Backstory time! I own nothing of Marvel's, clearly.**

XxX

_The Hunter's Son_

Iridian's eyes jolted open. Her current location was new to her.

A cozy, insulated bed, low to the ground, supported her. Warmth from a nearby fireplace worked its way under the plush blankets that lay on top of her. The ebony wallpaper of a white-ceilinged room surrounded her. She didn't realize the importance of this until she remembered what had happened a few hours—maybe even days—before.

_The attack in the forest, remember? A creepy shadow monster came out of nowhere and clawed you to unconsciousness. Did you happen to forget?_

She pulled her right arm out from under the covers to search for her staff. Immediately, a jarring pain knifed through her arm and her corresponding side. Her head throbbed with agony; every tiny movement of her neck hurt indescribably. The skin on her chest burned from where the demon had mauled her. Her right arm had probably been broken, along with a few of her ribs. She then noticed that there were linen bandages under her clothing.

Fear found a niche within her heart. She was supposed to be dead.

A shadow in the corner of her vision moved. Iridian froze, but then a small, soft, and masculine voice said gently, "Your staff is next to the fireplace. Don't worry; I didn't do anything to it."

With difficulty, Iridian turned her head towards the origin of the speaker. For a passing moment, she saw nothing but spots and motes of different colors twirl in her line of sight. When they finally cleared, she could see her potential ally a bit more closely, sitting in a wooden chair next to the blazing fireplace.

He seemed quite young to her; almost about fifteen or sixteen, which was close to her age. His closely-cropped head of dark brown hair was matted with mud and grime from hours of work and toiling in humid fields. His gently torn and weathered tunic was a gentle shade of blue, closer to a bright teal. A small dagger was belted at his side. As far as she could tell, the sheath was leather and the hilt was a unique, exotic wood. The wood that was used to make the dagger hilt, simply known as whitewood, was known to be extremely lavish and definitely not cheap. She had no idea of where he could have gotten it, which may have been a bit mean, but it was the truth. Farmers and peasants could not find such a luscious material as whitewood very easily.

_A family gift, perhaps, _she thought in passing amusement.

The boy continued to speak. "You should really stay in bed. You broke your right arm and fractured several ribs. Your chest was a bloody mess when we found you."

Iridian's voice came out hoarser than she would have preferred. "Thank you."

"No problem."

This boy was extremely interesting. He had just saved her life, and was now saying that it wasn't a big deal? Maybe that's the way he treated things in life: as simple-yet-complicating tasks designated by his own free will. She would have loved to learn more about who this person really was, but she was too miserable to start a conversation.

Her savior noticed and started one for her. "Not to be nosy," the teenager politely said, "but what were you doing in that forest, anyway?"

That question made her feel a bit more wary than before. She was supposed to be in Midgard right now, trying to figure out who the 'avenging heroes' were, not lying on a bed burdened by injuries. She couldn't tell this young man what her goal was. No matter what he did or asked, her main priority was healing as quickly as possible and then leaving immediately after. She didn't know how far it was from her location to the portal stone; she may have been taken back out the way she came.

Iridian realized that she was being too quiet, and she hadn't even answered the question. With a slightly forced smile, she said, "I'd like to keep that a secret, thank you."  
Now the boy grew suspicious. "I saved your life. You could—at the least—tell me your name and what you were doing."

Her name. Right. "Iridian."

He nodded. "The name's Trace."

For a moment, there was a period of awkward silence. Then, Iridian said, "Are your parents around?"

"Well," Trace began, "my father is out in the field."

"And your mother?" Iridian prompted.

"She's back in Vyanir. My father and I left the city to hunt for food and pelts to support my two sisters and my mother."

_Vyanir_. It had been a while since she had been to Vyanir. The last time she went was before her family had been killed. They had gone during a country-wide celebration, when the harvesting season was over. While her father had gotten some new farming equipment to plow their rough land back in the village, young Iridian and her mother had gone to the main plaza and explored the various shops scattered about. There, in the bustling evening of the city, Iridian had spotted and walked around a woodcarver's shop, three food vendors that sold various types of exotic, imported fruit, and a toy store with extremely expensive and delicate figurines. She, in her overactive excitement, had knocked the figure of a queenly lady with a magnificent dress off of its shelf, where it shattered. Her mother had promptly apologized to the livid shopkeeper and paid for the damages in full. Iridian went home that night feeling sorrowful and guilty, but her father gave her a sweet cake from one of the Vyanirian bakeries to cheer her up.

The memory made her heart throb painfully.

"So," Trace cleared his throat. "What about your parents?"  
Her voice was flat. "They're dead."

Trace started slightly, but recovered. "My apologies for your loss."  
"Don't apologize. It wasn't your fault." She was a bit surprised. Iridian wasn't expecting an athletic, rough-and-tumble guy like Trace to be so sympathetic and formal. Perhaps she was mistaken about his gruff, uneducated nature. She had to hand it to him, though. He was good at hiding his feelings with words and a masterful use of facial expressions. "You weren't there to know."  
"How did they… you know..."

"Fires from explosions."

"Who? A neighboring village?"

Iridian shook her head sadly. "No. It was Vexar."

Trace, in a surprising first act of violence, beat a fist against the fireplace mantel, creating a loud _thud_. "Damn him. That bastard should have died long ago. Our world has no need of filth like him, and neither do the other realms." He then realized that he had an audience. "Forgive my coarse language, Iridian."

"I feel the same. Don't worry." His dedication to her well-being shocked her.

Trace settled down, however, as he wondered aloud, "If I recall, though, he was on hiatus from murdering and looting for what, eight years? So, your village was one of the last to be destroyed before Vexar disappeared for several years?"  
"Yes."

"And that would make you… How old are you, anyway?"

She pondered the question for a moment. It was sad, she thought, that she wasn't sure of her own birth date. "Fifteen."  
He gasped quietly. "You were seven when you were orphaned?" Thousands upon thousands of questions were written upon Trace's face.

She nodded a reply.

"How did you survive? The woods and plains here aren't friendly places for seven-year-olds. Ever since Vexar's return a few days ago, it's been rough, but it was plenty bad a decade ago."

"Do you want to know about my childhood?" Iridian asked suddenly. She had made the unchanging, resolute decision to tell Trace about her past. Every bit of it. He had saved her life, he had made her comfortable, and he had engaged in small talk with her. This was one of the most recent times that she had associated with another human being, besides Avulania. Then again, she didn't consider Avulania to be human. He had been kind to her, and she was repaying it completely.

His reply was immediate. "God, yes."

She took a deep breath and gently eased herself into a position more suitable for telling long stories, wincing as her aching muscles and broken bones protested.

_Here I go._

XxX

Sobs pounded in her chest. Her hands trembled, the pocket containing her lucky stone bouncing on her upper thigh. Sweat pooled with the tears lingering on her cheeks. Ash was still trailing off of her skirt, leaving a smudged, sooty path behind her. Her skimpy sandals pounded deep footprints into the loose dirt.

Iridian didn't know how long she had been running away from her ruined village. At least three days had elapsed. She had spent hours alternating between running and stumbling. Occasionally she would find a clear stream and drink heartily from it. Berries were common, but she barely knew anything about the flora and fauna here. One bite from the wrong fruit could lead to a violent, convulsive death. All she knew was that she would never be going back home.

Once along the trail, she had spotted a young male deer, a buck. His horns were beginning to grow sharp points, which would later be used to fend off bears and other hunters. The deer had regarded her with animalistic sympathy and had leaped away into the depths of the forest. Besides that, and the uncommon squirrel or other creature, she never had any contact with any other living thing. As she wandered farther away from the haunts of other humans and into the darker depths of the forest, normal wildlife grew scarcer, replaced by the infrequent appearances of other, more magical creatures. Those didn't appear often, though.

Now was an exception, because she was being chased by one. She didn't know what it was, but it was clearly something big. Whether it was a wolf, bear, or something more demonic, she was on its menu. She was determined not to be.

Iridian dodged carefully around thorny bushes and low-lying branches. Her stubby, flimsy arms were covered in goosebumps from the cold forest weather. The freezing gusts of wind carried an ominous message that only spelled one thing: death. The moon was beautiful and bright. Although she was usually obsessed with the moon on nights like this, Iridian, at the moment, couldn't care less. Her world was no longer innocent and touching. It was a mess of death, murder, burning fires of anguish, and horrible fates and tortures.

Maybe her lucky stone had caused all this. Maybe, because she had brought it into the village, Iridian was the cause of all this chaos and sorrow. She felt like throwing the meaningless hunk of stone into a river and watching it flow away with the powerful, deep current. She couldn't make herself, though, because that stone was the last that she had felt of her mother. Her mom had touched this gem before her death. She had stared lovingly at the round, multicolored surface. So, in this way, it was both a burden and a treasure to carry. She kept it.

Behind her, the growling hoots of an unidentified creature faded into the night mist. She had lost her angry, primeval pursuer, for which she was glad. She didn't want to be potential food for something else every single minute of the long, treacherous day.

That didn't change the fact that she was hopelessly lost. And alone.

She needed to find help. For herself and her village. There could still be survivors who could still be saved from the hands of Death. Iridian had a sinking suspicion that she was the last villager who was able to walk. It was her unshakable duty to find help for her friends and acquaintances. She could not run from it, although it was physically possible to. The negative effects of leaving her villagers would come back to haunt her if she did. She was seven, but no one cared. She had a job to do, and no matter her age or experience, she was fully expected to do it.

That load of knowledge was enough to cause another nervous breakdown, and it did.

She slowed to a walk, still crying both inside and out. She sat down heavily behind a fortress of bushes and leaned against the trunk of a great tree. As icy winds whipped leaves and branches around, she cuddled with herself for warmth, utterly miserable, and tried to fall asleep. She would look for help in the morning, once her strength had partially returned. If it ever did.

She napped for another two or three hours before she felt a hand on her shoulder.

Suddenly alert, Iridian brought her head up to an angle from where she could see this mysterious person.

He was wrapped in darkness, and his face was barely visible under his black hood. He appeared to be a middle-aged man, the kind of guy who would be a good uncle, creepy cloak aside. The moon casted a powerful glow upon his fur coat. Iridian seethed in silent, bubbling anger. Here she was, freezing and on the brink of hypothermia, and there he was, with his exotic, dreamy coat to keep him warm. She shied away from him, scooting around the tree that supported her. The man spoke a few soothing words under his breath that Iridian didn't catch. She continued to evade him, but didn't bother with the hassle of getting up and running away.

After a few more moments of Iridian skirting away from his touch, she allowed herself to be stroked gently on the shoulder. When he did touch her, his light touch reminded her of the way her father treated her. He had been loving and kind, and his hands were like the wings of an angel. The thought sent her spiraling into another bout of unstoppable sobbing and crying. Iridian tucked her head in between her knees and refused to look at the man.

The man didn't move from his spot. He kept his hand on Iridian's shoulder as she continued to weep. Gradually, the sobs quieted, and all was silent again. It was then that he said:

"Come with me. I'll keep you safe." The man carried a thick accent that she couldn't place.

Iridian considered saying no. She wanted to be warm and cozy, yes, but she had to get help for her village. She wasn't even sure if this man was completely friendly yet. Then again, she thought, he could have harmed me earlier. Her choice was either to die here, alone and friendless, or to be taken in by this mysterious man and hope that he wasn't going to murder her in her sleep. She hated taking chances.

Thoughts of warm, home-cooked food and a comfortable bed danced in her vision. The young girl, hating herself for caving in to her desires, brushed the guest's hand off of her shoulder. She finally looked him in the eyes, and whimpered softly, "Thank you."

XxX

"So, you went with him?"

"Yes. I was desperate and scared. I didn't know what else to do." Iridian's throat was parched. Her story had sent Trace on an emotional rollercoaster of pity and anger. It had also made her extremely thirsty.

Trace was apparently thirsty, as well. He got up, went over to a low-lying table and grabbed a wooden pitcher and cup. As he poured the unknown drink, he said, "What did he do, then? He obviously didn't kill you, but did he say anything weird? Did he do anything that you didn't like?"

She shrugged. "No. He gave me food and drink, and a place to rest. He did say something suspicious though."  
"What was it?"  
"I asked for his name," Iridian explained, "but he wouldn't tell me. He did tell me that he liked wearing cloaks and other garments of the sort. So I started calling him Cloakie, since I was seven years old."

"You were also very mature at the time," noted Trace.

She smiled wryly. "That didn't stop me from giving him a horrible nickname. He was okay with it, but it was getting embarrassing to say, so I began to call him Clark."

"Clark. Hmm. Not too bad, considering your young age."

"Our small friendship soon grew into a full father-to-daughter relationship. I adored his unique accent and his perfection with language. He knew what to say at the right time. My extended stay was dotted with incidents that I still remember. But…" A disturbing thought came to plague her at this moment, and she paused.

"Wait; please forgive me for interrupting. How long did you stay with him?"

Iridian shifted in her position. "I stayed with him for most of my childhood, a good long eight years."

"So, you just left him? Why?" Trace was surprised at this. "I mean, wouldn't he feel more comfortable if you stayed a while longer? Wasn't he sad to see you go?"

"No." Her voice grew solemn. "He left me alone for a few months. He probably forgot about me. After I waited for those months, I decided to leave. My departure was about a week ago, I believe."

"How do you know if he left you on purpose or not?" Trace was troubled by this revelation.

"He had never done anything like this in my entire stay with him. Usually, he left a note or came back to check on me periodically. He rarely ever left for three days, much less for three months. If he went hunting, I went with him. If he was looking for plants to gather, I gathered plants alongside him. That's the way we lived: as a team."

"You were close, it seems."

"Very. Until he abandoned me, that is."

Trace nodded, and finished off the last of his drink. He washed it out in a nearby basin and poured some more for Iridian from the pitcher. He left the drink and pitcher on her nightstand and got up to leave.

"Thank you, Iridian. You are quite a good storyteller." The peasant boy left that compliment hanging in the air and went to assist his father in their crop-fields.

Iridian felt the tips of her ears glow red, and it wasn't because of the fireplace.

XxX

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter! ^_^. Thanks to Timeless88 for both following and reviewing!**


	5. Rain Begins to Fall

**Author's Note: I will say this outright: this is a filler chapter. I apologize deeply, and I hope you continue to read this fanfic. Also, please take the time to read my profile. I've written down warnings for squick-y stuff and triggers, and also an explanation for why I have a FanFiction account (even though I don't like most fandoms).**

**Boring Disclaimer: I only own my OCs, and nothing of Marvel's.**

XxX

_Rain Begins to Fall_

Natasha lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, which was lit by the cold moon filtering through the cloudy, fog-lined night. Its mute colors did nothing to cheer her up in any way. She had heard of hospitals who had painted their ceilings extremely specific shades of colors to evoke certain feelings of love or happiness. Tony either was too dumb to think about that (which was not a big possibility; he, unfortunately, was pretty damned smart), or too cheap to have that utilized. She was opting for the latter.

Her shoulder-blade burned whenever she moved it. Bruce had told her that it had broken into large-sized fragments when the mace had collided with it. She had told him to leave the room and not come back until half a day later. Enough was enough.

To say that the creature had left her terrified was an understatement. She had shot it three times, and it hadn't felt a thing. The bullet holes had faded shortly after, and if that wasn't enough, the spirit had to go and rip her shoulder to bits. Her fists gripped the sheets, straining her injured muscles and bones.

The door to her room slowly opened, and Steve quietly, respectfully, came into the room, shield in hand. He looked a bit flustered. It was pretty late at night, but he looked more disturbed and traumatized than he was exhausted, although he did look a little tired. "Feeling better?"  
She shifted a little. Lying in the same position for too long made her fidgety and impatient. "Yes. Thank you, Captain."

He acknowledged her comment with a simple nod. "Thor just took down another one on the rooftop. It was trying to blow the house."

She was caught between thinking she should get out of bed and help, and remembering that she couldn't do anything in her condition. Her weapon hadn't affected the enemy at all. Clint's letter opener or Bruce's green fist hadn't done anything useful, either. She, in her frustration toward their situation, was starting to make herself and everyone else sound fundamentally helpless.

"I wish I could make up for before," Steve admitted sheepishly, "but regular weapons don't seem to harm these guys, and no one can use Thor's hammer except, well, Thor. It's clear we'll need more weapons like his."

The past week since the original attack, it had begun to grow clearer that they were on someone's wanted list. Two days after Tony's kitchen was absolutely ruined, a tiny, four-headed lizard snuck through the ventilation ducts in the mansion and nearly disabled JARVIS with some kind of spell. The possible incident was stopped because Tony was talking with Thor in his workshop at the time, and that's where JARVIS's database was located. Tony, in a futile attempt to kill it, managed to lose a perfectly good screwdriver before Thor squished it with his hammer. Three days later, as Pepper was returning from her private jet after the business meeting, four tiger-like creatures melted out of the shadows and attacked Pepper's taxi. How the enemy knew Pepper boggled all of them. Upon receiving her distress call, they told Thor, who promptly left for Pepper's location and destroyed the demon tigers. The taxi driver retired shortly after.

"I don't want him to be doing all the work," Steve added.

"Neither do I," Natasha said softly, "but I don't know where Thor got the metal for his hammer. Maybe it's not even about that, and it has something to do with magic."

"I wouldn't deny that."

"How about you ask him?"

"Right now?" Steve winced inconspicuously. "He's not in the best of moods."

"It'll be worth a try," suggested Natasha.

XxX

Upon leaving Natasha, Steve found Thor lounging in his room, twirling his hammer by the leather strap on the end. He looked tired and was obviously, as Steve had put it earlier, not in the best of moods. His mouth seemed to curve downward the longer he stared at it, and Thor's eyelids were droopier than they had ever been in a while. That was saying a lot, since Thor liked coffee. Lots of it. Steve didn't understand why the guy was still awake. He deserved lots of rest, but then again, it is hard to fall asleep again in the middle of the night, whether a demon assault is involved or not.

"Hello, Captain" was all the Asgardian said.

Not willing to sugar-coat this with extra apologies or unneeded words, Steve got right to the point. "Where did you get the metal for your hammer?"

"The metal is known as Uru, and is found in Asgard. Why would you want to know?" Thor was now genuinely curious, and almost entirely forgot about his drowsiness.

"I've started to notice a few things. So has everyone else. First, why is your hammer the only thing that can take these guys down? Is it something special that we don't have access to?"

"Yes, it is. Uru is unique to Asgard, and Asgard alone."

"Does it have any magical properties?" Steve automatically knew that this was a stupid question. Mjolnir was a hammer that could channel lightning. Of course it was magical.

Thor nodded. If he thought that Steve's question was stupid, he didn't show it.

"Exactly." Steve knew his hunch was right. "If your hammer's metal is unique to Asgard, then we don't have access to it. If it has magical properties, it can take down anything that has magical properties as well. So, in short, a lack of Uru or any other mystic material means that we can't do anything to magical creatures."

Thor's face brightened. He was glad for this revelation, because it meant that he wouldn't have to battle monsters alone if his friends were equipped with weapons like his. "Then I must aid you and the others and bring Uru weapons to Midgard."

"That's a great idea, but do you know how long this process will take?"

Steve's completely logical inquiry slowly knocked Thor down. "I could have the dwarves from Nidavellir sneak in and take Uru weapons from the armory in Asgard. It won't be suspicious if they take them."

"Your realm will need them if it gets attacked. Besides, that sounds a lot like stealing."

"Then how about I go and talk to my father? He will most likely say yes."

"He might also say no." Steve continued to speak, stopping Thor's words before they came out of his mouth. "You're an asset here, Thor. We don't know when the next attack could be, and what good will our weapons be if they can't make contact with the enemy? I don't know how long the negotiations will take, and neither do you."  
"Then, what is your plan?"

"How about we have someone else go? Besides you, obviously."

"Are you volunteering yourself?"

"Kind of."

"Mortals are not allowed within Asgard without a good reason."  
"Isn't protection of Earth a good enough reason?" Steve wondered how Thor managed living on Asgard for almost all of his life. There were so many rules and courtesies, and not even Thor could keep track of all of them.

"You'll need a better answer to tell my father," said Thor grimly.

The sad thing was that Steve already knew this. "So, it all comes down to your father being extremely stubborn, untrustworthy, and paranoid. Or, we can sneak in and steal something, but people will find out sooner or later."

"True."

Steve sat down heavily on the floor, crossed his legs, and steadied his breathing. A few weeks before this giant fiasco, Tony had told and educated Steve about the wonders of tai chi and meditation. The others had given up on teaching him about the Internet and technology, so this was a passable alternative. They tried anything that would prevent Steve from filling Tony's computers with viruses. "What's our plan, then?"

Thor took it upon himself to be helpful. "Uru can't be the only metal with magical properties, can it? There are more materials like that, and at least one kind of them has to be here on Midgard."

"Yeah." After another moment of careful, focused contemplation, Steve rose off of the carpet and thanked Thor. "I'll tell Tony in the morning. He'll be able to program something to locate the materials we need." The soldier left Thor's room so the big guy could get some rest.

Several minutes later, as Steve got ready for bed, it occurred to him that they might not have enough time to find the proper metals before the next major assault. His brain was so wired, he was surprised to find that he was still walking and conversing with other people normally. A few of the things he had thought and said were a bit nutty and abnormal, but at least he had come up with a passable strategy. Still, how had he not asked himself this question any earlier?

It should have been a concern of his from the beginning, because if they didn't have any weapons before the next attack, how were they supposed to fight their enemies? Monsters would invade the city, and no one could do anything about it, except Thor. Steve was pretty sure that Thor couldn't take down a whole thousand-man army himself, despite his brute strength.

So they needed a solution, and fast.

Steve hoped that his was good enough.

XxX

She had been staying with Trace for about a month now. Her nasty cuts and bruises had completely healed without a single scar, thanks to Trace's father's intervention (he was a doctor and an herbalist when he wasn't hunting and slaughtering deer), and her bones were healing at a miraculously fast rate. What would have taken a day took about half of one. Her arm and ribs were feeling like they had been doused in a dose of heaven, if that was even possible. Iridian felt more capable and exhilarated than she had ever felt in a very long while.

As a child, she had broken appendages numerous times, and the fractures seemed to completely heal after about four or five weeks, which had surprised her parents and her friends. None of them had had any idea of why or how this was happening. Well, maybe her parents knew, except that they had been keeping the secret quiet until Iridian was the right age. Unfortunately, they never got to say anything about it to her, because they died before she had completely matured.

Now, Iridian sat next to Trace on the freshly-cut stump of a tree and watched his father toiling in the fields. It had come to her attention that he barely had any facial hair. Perhaps he was trying to do away with the old stereotype of grizzled, scraggly farmers with straw hats, and it was working. Iridian had to admit that Trace's father was quite attractive, and perhaps some of these traits had passed into—

_Not now, _she told herself.

Her staff lay upon her lap, the tip glowing brightly as usual. Trace had asked her several times about how she had gotten it, and she had simply told him that it was a gift from her caretaker, Clark. No need to delve into the painful details.

Now, she was sipping from a lukewarm cup of fairy tea. She had wondered for a while as to the origins of the drink's name, and Trace had told her that the bland, yet strangely reinvigorating taste and aromatic smell came from the boiled petals of the fairy-wing orchid. Because the plant contained a deadly poison to ward off would-be predators (like humans, for example), it was a large task to safely remove the poison and make the petals sterile. This was all a huge load of work, which culminated in a drink that was surprisingly underwhelming in texture and taste. However, the drink did have many health benefits, and due to the increasing number of orchid-farmers, it was becoming easier to come by and was made a whole lot cheaper.

Trace (who was also a very good storyteller) had told her of an orchid-farmer he knew back in the city. He had been looking for a specific orchard, one that grew on the branches of the Demon Tree in the Forest of the Demonborn, which was southeast of Vyanir and was where Clark's little cabin was located. He knew it was a dark and dreary job, yet insisted that if his quest succeeded, his family would be made rich, and their legacy would live forever. He left the city and was never heard from again.

"Legend tells that the Demon Tree was the prison of a flirtatious and unfaithful spirit, cursed by her angry spouse to inhabit the tree for all eternity and wither away to nothing. The travelers who came, whether they were lost or seeking the beautiful demon-orchid that grows upon it, ended up having their lives stripped of all sustenance and destroyed by the spirit's ravaging, impure soul. The Tree continues to terrorize people to this very day." Trace had told her this story very early on in her stay, and she made a mental note never to go back into that forest again. Trace never said what exactly happened to that poor farmer, and she didn't want to know.

She wondered how much trouble fairy tea brewers went through to find the perfect fairy-wing orchids, turn them into something that could be used for a drink, and produce their creation in enough quantity to satisfy their customers. The more she thought about it, the more agitated she grew. Iridian gulped down the last of the drink and set the cup down on the grass next to her feet.

"So," she began, clearing her throat, "when do you think I could leave?"

Oh, that didn't come out right. Not at all.

Trace fixed her in a stunned look that reminded her of a dog that had been given a confusing order like: _Crawl up the ceiling. _"Iridian, you could leave any time. But, in your condition, I wouldn't recommend going anywhere for a while. Should you leave now, where would you go? Who would you stay with?"

How could she tell him? She was the main playing piece of a prophecy that was larger than anything ever experienced here on Kyvial. Her destiny involved all of the Nine Realms. How would that sound to a boy who had done nothing but skin deer and bears, hunt, and plant seeds his entire teenage life?

_Might as well tell him now than later._

As casually as one might discuss what the main course at dinner would be, Iridian said, "I'm long since due in Midgard."

A flicker of confused surprise was quickly covered as Trace prompted an explanation from Iridian.

She shifted on the tree stump and set her staff next to her wooden cup as she tried to find a suitable way to explain the knotted, tangled mess that was her life. "There's this whole _saving-the-world-thing _related to me, and somehow I'm supposed to stop this evil plague of demons before they overtake the Nine Realms. Somehow, Kyvial plays a large part in this, and so does a group of heroes on Midgard. And somehow, there's a lot of suffering and bitterness for everyone involved. You get me?" She didn't mean to sound sarcastic in the nasty way that she was speaking, but it came out naturally.

Trace said nothing, but his face conveyed his sincere concern well enough for Iridian to realize that he was truly interested in her predicament, despite his lack of knowledge. "Is there any way I can help?"

Iridian wanted to scream. "I appreciate the thought, but I'll be better off alone, thanks."

The peasant boy looked highly offended. "Why?"

"I'm not good with other people," said Iridian lamely.

Now, Trace smiled, as if Iridian's statement amused him. "That's not enough of an answer, Iridian," he said gently. "Could you tell me how I can help? I really would like to support you in some way."

"Look, Trace," sighed Iridian, and she was beginning to grow impatient. "It has to do with me and Clark, and a lot of things that happened when I was with him, and it's just that… that…" Her sentence faded away. "Just don't ask. It's really personal." Iridian forced a small smile.

Trace's normal expression returned. "You don't have to say anything else about your past. But if I can help, then…"

"You can help!" Iridian yelled suddenly. "Well, I'd be slightly annoyed, but if you wanted to, you could, I guess…"

"I'd like to," Trace declared politely. "If there's any way I can help you get to Midgard, tell me, alright?" If he noticed Iridian's cheeks growing slightly red, he didn't say anything.

Iridian was about to thank Trace when he abruptly rose from his seat and went to help his father in the field. It seemed as if that was his excuse to get away from Iridian. She didn't know what to think about that. Was she confused, grateful, attracted, or bitter like she always was? What did Trace really mean to her, and what did she mean to him?

_Since when did you care so much about other people? _Iridian asked herself angrily. _Get over it! He took care of your wounds; that's all. You don't need his help, or anyone else's._

Still, she worried. Who were those Midgardian heroes she had to help? Would they appreciate her and grow to be attracted to her, or would they turn their backs and leave her like everyone else from her past did? Fear ignited in the back of her mind.

Iridian shook her head, clearly disgusted with herself for thinking like this. She had to save the Nine Realms, whether her state of mind was involved or not. That was how she had lived for the longest time: survive alone and without any attraction to anyone, or else you'll let your feelings get the better of you and bring yourself down.

She thought of Clark then, and her heart fluttered painfully inside her injured ribcage. He had made Iridian's life better and then left her in the same hopeless situation that he had found her in.

The frustrated girl beat a fist into the cut tree trunk.

What was she supposed to feel?

Iridian didn't know.

XxX

**Thanks to LuvWolves4ever for following! Also, please leave reviews. I'd love it if I got a few new ideas for this fic. :D**


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